Читать книгу Goodfellowe MP - Michael Dobbs - Страница 6

Corsa kept the scribe waiting, wanting from the start to establish the line of authority. Not that there was ever going to be any doubt on the point, but the gesture nevertheless had to be made. Like genuflecting in a church.

The lift by which the journalist had ascended was glass-fronted, in keeping with the contemporary internal design of the converted warehouse, allowing sight of the first three floors of the building in which were housed the offices of the Granite Foundation, the charitable trust created by Papa and, as in all such matters, transformed by his son. The Foundation owned the building and leased the top two penthouse floors to Corsa at a rent so nominal that it would undoubtedly have been regarded as an abuse had the details been known by the Charity Commission, which they weren’t. But, Corsa argued, he gave the Foundation the benefit of his financial acumen and public relations expertise which were of inestimable value. Anyway, all the trustees were placemen, hand-picked ‘for their proven commitment to good causes,’ as Corsa put it, although the only cause most of them had served had been Corsa himself. Still, it ensured that board meetings ran efficiently and without acrimony.

The penthouse, which was used by Corsa as his London home and for which travellers in the lift required a computer access code, was a stunning modernist creation in steel and glass, shod with a suitable acreage of blond wood. It offered breath-snatching views along the river to where the new headquarters of Granite Newspapers nestled in the shadow of Canary Wharf, while its internal privacy and climate were secured by an adept use of computer-controlled sailcloth shades which surrounded the atrium on three sides. As much as Corsa insisted on being regarded as part of the press establishment, in private his tastes were eclectic, nonconformist, some might say even inconsistent. But never his purpose.

The journalist, when he was ushered onto the terracotta terrace overlooking the river, found Corsa surrounded by fig trees and seated on a planter’s chair, talking by telephone with his son’s headmaster.

‘Headmaster, Freddy Junior tells me you’re looking to replace your cricket pavilion. I’d like to help. The Granite Foundation is very keen on worthwhile educational projects. I’m sure they would want to look at it very closely.’

He waved for the journalist to take a seat. Tea was already set out on the table beside them. He indicated that the journalist should pour.

‘One point, Headmaster. If they are going to provide the bulk of the funds, I’m sure they would like to think that their name might find its way onto the pavilion. Not quite as important as the Sainsbury Wing at the National Gallery, perhaps, but the principle’s the same.’

On the river below a pleasure boat commandeered for a school outing to Greenwich sounded its klaxon and the children waved energetically. Corsa waved back.

‘Glad you agree. But, now you raise the subject, I’m not sure that something like the Granite Pavilion has quite the right personal touch. Bit too … solid for Sussex, wouldn’t you say? Maybe we’d better just call it the Corsa Pavilion.’ He winked at his guest, allowing him in on the game. ‘But there is one other point we need to discuss, if the subject is cricket. To be blunt, I can’t see how the school can have a Corsa Cricket Pavilion if it doesn’t have a Corsa in the cricket team.’

A silence fell as the headmaster was allowed to ponder the point.

‘Does it matter if his average was only eight last year?’ Corsa continued. ‘Those runs are worth five thousand pounds apiece if you get your new pavilion. It could be up in time for the annual game with Eton. So maybe it will cost you the match for the next two years, but it’ll save the team.’ He paused, then a glint of satisfaction crossed Corsa’s well-tanned face. ‘I felt sure you would feel that way about it, Headmaster. Pleasure talking to you.’

He replaced the phone and turned to his guest. ‘Don’t think I’m a soft touch – it’s not as painful as it sounds. Someone is sure to argue that as generous as my offer is, others should be asked to help raise some of the money. To foster team spirit. So I’ll end up offering matching sums, pound for pound. Get away with twenty grand, less than two years’ school fees.’ He declined to remind the visitor that in any event the money would not be coming from his own pocket but from the Foundation.

‘So, Mr Gooley, you want to become the Herald’s new City Editor.’

The young man slurped his tea in surprise. ‘I hadn’t realized there was a vacancy.’

‘There isn’t. Not yet at least. But imagine for a moment that there were. Why should you replace him?’

Gooley, put off-balance, wrestled awkwardly with his thoughts.

‘Why should it be you?’ Corsa repeated. ‘Or is that too difficult a question?’

‘It’s an unfair question.’

‘Yes, but I’m sure you’ll manage.’

Gooley returned his cup to the table, clearing the decks. He was a young man whose playing field of emotions stretched between enterprise and ambition, and the ground in between was exceptionally well trodden. He was not the sort of man to pass by an opportunity without launching himself at it with both kneecaps. It won him few friends, although the Herald’s City Editor might have counted himself amongst them, yet Gooley was still of an age where friends were little more than an audience.

‘OK. I’m a good journalist. I know the City, the institutions, how to gut a balance sheet.’

‘So do a hundred others.’

‘But far more important, I know men. City men. What drives them.’

‘Which is?’

‘Hunger.’

‘For fame?’

‘No, not in the City. Fame is for the gentlemen farther up the river at Westminster. That’s why they die poor and disappointed and in their own beds. In the City the hunger is for wealth. Money. Acquisition. And why so many of them die in other people’s beds. They’re warmer.’

Corsa was amused. ‘You sound as if you’ve made quite a study of this. Something of an academic, are you?’

It was the journalist’s turn to show amusement. ‘With my accent? You think I got that at university? No, Mr Corsa, I’m Oldham, not Oxford. Rugby league and Tandoori takeaway, that’s me, and I’ll waste your money on the finest claret only if it gets me a story. There’s nothing academic about me. I didn’t need books to understand the way the City men think. All I needed was a mirror.’

‘So we’re all avaricious, are we?’

‘Single-minded. Know what we want.’

‘And what do you want?’

Gooley looked carefully around the penthouse. His eyes were not adjusted to appreciate the refinement, the glow of Lalique, the elegant discomfort of the Mackintosh chairs. He was simply lost in the size of it all. ‘I’ll bet you’ve got a hundred silk ties in your wardrobe.’

‘A hundred and fifty.’ Corsa exaggerated, but the younger man’s eyes remained direct, disarmingly uncomplicated.

‘I want this, or something like this,’ he breathed. ‘I want to be part of it all. That’s why I want the opportunity to be your City Editor.’

Corsa’s appreciation of the man grew. ‘But along with the opportunities also go responsibilities. To me. I’m very much a hands-on proprietor. The City is my world, too, and I don’t like being taken by surprise.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘I’m talking a two-way relationship. I tell you what I know; you return the confidence. I want to feel it’s a team effort.’ Corsa was an excellent player of this particular game, flattering his journalists and editors into subservience, leaving their professional integrity intact while ensuring they did precisely what he intended. ‘It’s not that I want any inside information, you understand, but I need to know you’ve got your finger on the pulse. That the stories you print are well founded and not simply dreamed up over lunch. Understood?’

‘Sharing inside information with you would be highly unethical’ – Gooley paused for no more than the beating of a wing – ‘if you were to use it. I feel sure our relationship would be based on a deep and mutual trust. If I were your City Editor.’

‘Good. Very good.’ Corsa mused, then made up his mind. The present incumbent could go chew nut buns. ‘Very well, Jim, in the spirit of mutual trust let me give you something. News which you will be the first to hear. Not for printing yet, but I want you to think about it. You know that the Granite Group is the best damn company in the newspaper field, but the others are always snapping at us. And when these new European regulations come in there’s going to be one hell of a dog fight. So we are going to be as lean and as fit and as mean as possible.’

Corsa made chopping motions with his hand. Gooley nodded.

‘It means that our friend the current City Editor isn’t going to be the only one asked to fall upon his pen. I’ll be announcing more economies, more streamlining.’

‘You mean more sackings at mill.’ The journalist leaned forward in his seat, alert. ‘How many?’

Corsa hesitated. ‘Suddenly I feel as though I’m being interrogated.’

‘You are. That’s my job. How many?’

‘Another five per cent.’

Gooley whistled gently. Another five per cent on top of the corporate ransacking Corsa had already undertaken … He began to shift uncomfortably as though discovering he was squatting on a distress flare, and straightened his tie defensively. Then he drew a deep breath and returned Corsa’s stare. ‘That’s great news. The Granite Group getting itself ready for the challenges of the new millennium. Committed to driving through reform. Focused strategy. Shareholder values …’

‘You are going to do … very well, Jim,’ Corsa enthused, but the eyes were still sharp, restless. ‘You realize, of course, that some of the competition will undoubtedly try to twist the news to make it sound like a measure of desperation. Cutbacks caused by overexpansion, imposed by bankers, that sort of unimaginative crap.’

‘Which is why we need to get in there first, set the pace, get people thinking straight. Not have some jaundiced hack from The Times getting it all wrong and queering the pitch.’

‘Very prescient. There’s a deal riding on this.’

‘How much of a deal?’

Corsa knew he had found the right man. ‘A twenty thousand bonus if after the announcement the shares go up rather than down.’

‘Does that mean I’ve got the job?’

‘One final question. You’re not a vegetarian by any sad chance?’

‘Surely it doesn’t all come down to money?’

The question seemed almost to startle the older woman, causing her to pause on her tour of inspection in order to give the matter a considered response. ‘It’s not just the money, Mrs Ashburton, it’s the principle of the thing. What sort of father puts his daughter in that sort of position? Especially a father who’s supposed to set an example.’

‘I feel Sam should be our main concern.’

Miss Flora Rennie, headmistress and custodian of values both moral and material at the Werringham School for Girls, resumed her walk around Top Field with Jenny Ashburton, her arts and crafts teacher. Mrs Ashburton had just come off the hockey field and had a perceptible dampness of the brow. Typical, Miss Rennie thought. Well intentioned but commits just a little too far. A flawed sense of perspective.

‘My concerns have to be wider than one individual girl. There are others to be considered. As headmistress I am responsible for making sure that the buildings are refurbished and the equipment replaced – and that I’m able to honour your salary cheques. I can’t do that if Mr Goodfellowe doesn’t honour his cheques.’

‘I hadn’t realized.’

‘This is the fourth term in a row that his term fees have been late,’ the headmistress added in a confidential tone frequently adopted in the drawing rooms of her native Edinburgh. ‘Last term’s fees are still outstanding, let alone this. Goodness knows what he does with his money. And Samantha can be so disruptive. So badly dressed.’

‘Do you know what she does, Headmistress? While all the other girls are buying magazines and CDs and new clothes? Sam buys her clothes at The Discount Store, then comes back and cuts out the labels in secret. So no one will know. And in the holidays while most of the other girls dash off to the ski slopes or a sandy beach, she takes a job waiting on table in a local pizzeria.’

It had begun to rain, a gentle drizzle which was excellent for youthful English character but not for greying hair. The headmistress sought shelter beneath the branches of a magnificently gnarled oak. ‘You seem to know a great deal about the girl.’

‘She’s the most talented artist we have in the school. She uses her art to express herself in a way she can’t elsewhere. An emotional outlet. I think it’s a form of therapy, for all her other problems.’

‘I can’t have her problems affecting the other girls. Or her father’s problems, come to that. Do they get on – Samantha and her father?’

‘I think it’s difficult. He’s away so much of the time. And no mother …’

‘Yes, I suppose we should have known what we were letting ourselves in for when she arrived.’ She frowned in the direction of a group of girls who chirruped ‘Good afternoon, Headmistress,’ and ran off giggling.

‘Sam’s very talented,’ Mrs Ashburton insisted, trying to steer the conversation onto more positive grounds. ‘And also very well intentioned. I know she gets into scrapes with some of the other girls, but that’s no more than frustration. Look at her other side. The charity fashion show, for example. It was her idea and she’s doing most of the organization. Beneath those dark eyes there’s a huge heart.’

‘It’s those dark eyes that will get her into trouble, mark my words. I get reports of the sort of boys she sees in her town time.’ Miss Rennie pulled her cardigan defensively about her bosom. ‘We are responsible for bringing our young ladies into contact with the finer values in life, not the sort of boys whose concept of culture is to spend their evenings bragging through their beer about under-age conquests.’ Her voice carried the hint of November wind blowing through the girders of the Forth Bridge.

‘She’s sixteen,’ the arts mistress responded in mitigation. ‘Anyway, I think she’s very much her own woman. Not easily led.’

Too committed, Miss Rennie reflected once more upon her colleague. A pity. Well intentioned, a gifted teacher. But too committed. It didn’t do, not with young girls, who required above all a tight rein. The headmistress sighed; she had already spent more than enough of her day worrying about one problem child, she had other responsibilities to attend to. The hot-water system had broken down yet again; it might require replacing, at whatever cost. ‘The fees must be paid,’ the headmistress responded, ‘I owe it to the other girls. Otherwise – well, perhaps Mr Goodfellowe’s neglect will relieve us of any further responsibility in this matter.’ And with that she strode purposefully in the direction of the boiler room.

Late-night votes. Endless hours of tedium during which the parliamentary bars remained open while parliamentary minds grew ever more fixedly shut. Get through the business, don’t delay, don’t digress. Just march and vote. Then, at last, it was over and the exhausted representatives of the people could be released into the custody of the community. Goodfellowe, without wheels, had been forced to join the queue of numbed men and women who waited for taxis, and it was well after one before he clambered up the narrow stone stairs to reach his studio flat overlooking Gerrard Street. The place was pleasant enough, as small flats go, nestling in the eaves of the old Regency house with a mezzanine platform for his bed and a pine-clad ceiling that stretched up into the loft space. Once, a lifetime ago, he had lived in Holland Park. In those days he’d been able to afford a little style and a lot of stucco; now all he had was his parliamentary allowance for second homes which had to cover everything: rent, heating, taxes, insurance, the lot. Not that the heating bills were heavy, not with the meat kitchen on the floor below, where they hung the char-sui and duck on long rows of curing racks, forcing the warmth and their sweet-sour aroma upwards. It would make summer a struggle. But the location was convenient and he needed the distraction of something different, somewhere that bustled well into the night and helped fill all those sleepless hours. Chinatown never slept, not until dawn.

They had regarded him with some suspicion when he moved in, the gweilo who had come to intrude upon the different families and clans that made up the Chinese community, but he’d made a point in his first week of going to see Madame Tang at her coffee shop and introducing himself, and slowly the word had got round. Minister Goodfellowe, a man who moved in circles of power, a man of contacts, a neighbour who might one day be useful. The Chinese understood that. They insisted on giving him a title and he had never been able to convince them that he was no longer a public figure of any eminence although, in truth, he hadn’t tried too hard. It still hurt.

He had just kicked off his shoes and begun brewing a pot of light green tea when there came a persistent buzzing from the intercom. ‘Minister Goodfellowe! Minister Goodfellowe!’ He was tired like a lashed horse but almost welcomed the intrusion, his emotions still restless, his bed as always cold. The buzzer sounded again. He looked around for his shoes then decided he couldn’t be bothered, relishing the cool stone stairs as he padded down two flights in his socks.

He opened the tall door to find Jya-Yu and Uncle Zhu standing on the step, silhouetted against the green neon of the Jade Palace across the street. Uncle Zhu was wearing a suit, carefully buttoned, and his hair was slicked down against his scalp. Jya-Yu was smiling nervously. ‘Sorry, very late. We wait until we see your light.’

‘Waiting all night? What for? Not more trouble?’ he asked, exhaustion leaving his words sharp with accusation.

Immediately he felt a louse as he noticed she was holding a plate on which were six assorted Chinese honey buns. ‘Cakes from cousin’s bakery. For you, Minister Goodfellowe. For thanks.’ She held the plate forward.

A noise whose origins lay somewhere deep within Uncle Zhu’s throat began. To Goodfellowe it was utterly incomprehensible but the Chinaman was also holding something, offering it up. Goodfellowe found himself being presented with a construction of chrome and cables and rubber which, on inspection, transformed itself into a lightweight collapsible bike.

Uncle Zhu’s head was bobbing effusively.

‘Also for thanks. Minister Goodfellowe,’ Jya-Yu chirped.

‘This is … so unexpected. Most kind,’ Goodfellowe responded, his tired judgement juggling with the implications. He was growing accustomed to the mercantile Chinese mind. ‘But how much will this cost?’

‘No cost. For thanks. To replace old one.’

The bike was surprisingly lightweight, he could hold it in one hand. ‘It would be very useful,’ he conceded, ‘but I can’t accept something so valuable. It could get me into trouble.’

He tried to offer back the bike, but Uncle Zhu refused and began an animated exchange with his niece.

‘Uncle Zhu says he get bike in payment from poor customer. Uncle Zhu not ride bike. You take it, no problem.’

‘I think I would like such a bike,’ Goodfellowe responded, turning the neatly folded package over in appreciation, ‘but I couldn’t accept it as a gift.’ He took a deep breath. ‘How much does your uncle think it’s worth.’ He dug into his pocket and came out clutching a solitary twenty-pound note.

Uncle Zhu’s brow darkened. Goodfellowe realized he had committed a mortal offence by offering him money. ‘You must understand,’ he stammered, ‘a politician can get into great trouble for accepting gifts. People have such suspicious minds. Dammit, they’ll even do away with Christmas next.’ He looked wistfully at the machine. It would be – would have been – the perfect answer, yet it seemed he must lose the wheels just as he had caused Uncle Zhu to lose face.

Suddenly Jya-Yu brightened. ‘Better way,’ she exclaimed. ‘You not take the bike, Minister Goodfellowe. You borrow it instead. Long term. And if Uncle Zhu ever need it, he take it back.’ Her face lit in mischief. ‘But you understand, his legs very short. I don’t think he can reach pedals. So you take care of it until Uncle Zhu’s legs grow.’

They both laughed, while the Chinaman stood immobile and uncomprehending. Goodfellowe, his objections overwhelmed by her advice and perhaps just a hint of avarice, gave what he hoped was a dignified bow and accepted the bicycle and the plate. Zhu smiled in relief and immediately turned away, Jya-Yu scurrying after him.

‘Just as long as it didn’t fall off the back of a lorry,’ Goodfellowe admonished as they retreated.

‘Oh, no, Minister Goodfellowe. It not even touch the ground. Look, no dents.’

And they were gone, leaving Goodfellowe clutching six sticky buns and a collapsible bike.

‘You look like a train-spotter.’ Mickey Ross, Goodfellowe’s secretary at the House of Commons, was nothing if not direct. She was also mid-twenties, vivacious, Jewish, formidably competent and possessor of a biting wit delivered with a lingering trace of Estuary English which marked her out as being not quite like the rest.

On this occasion no one could argue that she was being less than objective. She had walked in to find Goodfellowe standing in his parliamentary office, his trousers still confined within bicycle clips, his shoes hurled to the far side of the room and a raw toe poking through a new hole in his sock.

‘New shoes. A waste of money,’ he muttered.

‘The old ones were practically walking on their own,’ she scolded.

‘Anyway,’ he riposted, ‘aren’t you wearing the same clothes as yesterday? Didn’t you get home last night?’

‘I got waylaid,’ she mumbled, losing herself within the pile of morning post she was carrying.

‘With Justin?’

‘No. Not with Justin,’ she replied, sounding as if her fiancé’s name had suddenly become a complicated foreign language.

‘Mickey,’ he lectured, ‘I thought you said you have principles.’

It was a mistake, he should have known better. She only knew one means of defence, which was onslaught.

‘I do have my principles and I had my principles last night, too. It’s just that I lost them.’

‘Where?’

She pouted. ‘In the hotel lift on the way up to his room. I left them in a bag. A very small bag. Don’t worry. I found them again this morning on the way down.’ And with that she dumped the mountain of morning mail on his desk. It overflowed like an exploding volcano onto the floor, and he bent down to retrieve it with a groan. ‘And Beryl has just called,’ she added, with bite. ‘The reception on Friday week starts at seven prompt and I’m to remind you once more that it’s one of the biggest fund-raising bashes of the year.’

His groans grew more passionate. Beryl Hailstone was the chairmonster of his local party in Marsh wood. A woman of similar age to Goodfellowe, she had once made a pass at him, had been rejected in instinctive and unthinking horror, and had never forgiven.

It seemed unlikely that this was to be Goodfellowe’s day, for on top of the pile of correspondence he had retrieved from the floor was a letter from his bank manager. The letters from his bank were getting shorter and more peremptory in the months since the old manager had been forced to make way for a new, younger model. The personal touch and understanding had gone, and in its place Goodfellowe had found only codes of financial conduct set by computer and implemented by automatons who sounded on the telephone as though they should be selling fruit from a barrow in Brewer Street.

‘Sorry,’ Mickey offered, her concern genuine. She was always the first to know. She was the one who sorted out the rental for the fax machine and computer, booked his train tickets, picked up his dry cleaning, took care of so many corners of his private life and knew often before he did when the autumn of his accounting had turned to harshest winter. Like now.

He shivered. ‘Do you find you can never sleep?’

‘Sadly not. Men simply don’t have the stamina.’ She paused, noticing the shadows of exhaustion beneath his eyes. ‘But something’s troubling you, Tom.’

‘I had another set-to with Sammy.’ His tone was quiet, stripped of all pretension.

‘What was it this time?’

‘The usual. She wanted money for some charitable fashion show she’s putting on at school. I said something … well, she caught me at the wrong moment, I suppose. So she stormed off without any money, I was left without any invitation and I don’t even know when I’m going to see her again. My own daughter. Added to that I got a bollocking last night from the Chief Whip for missing several votes. He was particularly foul. I think I’ve decided I hate the entire bloody world. Or is it simply that they hate me?’

With a sense of bitter purpose he drew back his desk drawer. Reaching within, his fingers closed around a feather-flighted dart. He measured the weight in his hand, smoothing its feathers, stroking it as though like a weapon of mercy it might relieve him of all his cares. Then he hurled it in the direction of a notice board on the opposite wall on which was hung a collage of images already peppered with holes. A photograph of Beryl Hailstone. And one of the Chief Whip. The letter of introduction from his new bank manager. His Liberal opponent’s manifesto from the last election. A photocopy of an uncomplimentary piece by a Guardian sketchwriter. And other pieces. The bill for his final car service just before he sold it. A final demand. The label from a bad bottle of Australian Shiraz which had promised undertones of blackcurrant but instead had suggested beetles. Items from his life brought together by only one strand of logic, the fact that he loathed them.

The dart missed completely and stuck fast in the panelling above. He’d failed again.

‘Bugger it. I can’t even be miserable any more.’

Mickey began to laugh, playing with his self-pity, challenging him to turn his frustration on her, to find an outlet and let it pass. Clouds of anger flooded across his eyes, warning of the approaching storm.

‘You’re a witch.’

‘You’re right. And I shall probably burn. But in the meantime,’ she said, sitting primly on the chair in front of his desk and taking out her notepad, ‘let’s see if we can’t cast a spell on a few others. Like the bank manager,’ she announced, ticking him off a list. ‘He’s young, bound to be pathetically impressionable. Invite him to lunch on the Terrace. For the price of a plate of subsidized sausage and a half-decent bottle of wine you’ll be able to tie up your overdraft for months. You can invite me too. I’ll be sweet to him, and you know I’m irresistible.’

‘You are incorrigible.’ He meant it as an ill-tempered accusation. ‘How do you have the nerve to slink out of hotels looking guilty?’

‘I don’t. What’s the point in slinking out looking guilty when you can stride out and let everyone know you’ve had a good time?’ Ignoring his scowl, she returned to her list. ‘Darling Beryl will be quite content if you’re on time and wearing trousers and are nice to the right guests. I’ll type you out a list.’

‘If God is merciful I shall die first.’

‘So long as you’re wearing trousers, that’s fine.’ She put the notepad aside. ‘Then there’s Sam.’

He sucked in a lungful of air and released it, his body shaking, as if he were trying to expel all the twisted emotion within and start afresh. ‘I’m a father, a replacement mother, a social worker to seventy thousand constituents and common bankrupt, all at the same time. No wonder I make such a mess of everything.’

‘You’re not bankrupt yet.’ She was determined not to give his self-pity office space. ‘And none of it is Sam’s fault.’

‘You think I don’t know that?’

‘Of course you do. But does she?’

‘I take the point. I hadn’t realized you threw in your services as an agony aunt, too.’

‘I’m Jewish and I’m still breathing. What do you expect?’

‘I long ago learned to stop expecting anything,’ he said, meaning it.

‘Look, you’re supposed to be the grown-up one. So you haven’t got an invitation to the fashion show. You think she’s going to issue one in gold-block lettering and send a chauffeur-driven car? Go. Surprise her. If you can’t find the right words, at least show her that she’s more important than your bank manager or bloody Beryl or any number of your complaining constituents. Just be there for her.’

A chink of light appeared through the storm clouds. ‘OK,’ he nodded. ‘Put it in the diary, will you.’

‘I already have.’

‘For pity’s sake, won’t you let me win one round?’

‘For your sake, not if I can help it.’

He stood up abruptly. ‘That’s it. I’ve had enough. I’m going to leave you to handle all the post today on your own. I’m going off to broaden my mind.’

‘Where, in case Downing Street or the Vatican should ask?’

‘You can tell them I’m going for a therapeutic Chinese massage. With one of Jya-Yu’s prolific tribe of cousins, Dr Lin. She’s set me up with some free sessions.’

‘This isn’t something menopausal, is it?’

‘If it is,’ he said, searching for his shoes, ‘I intend to enjoy it.’

He was halfway through the door when he turned with an after-thought. ‘Tell me, what would you do if you discovered that Justin had – how can I put it delicately? – spent the night in a hotel room?’

She stretched out a leg, casually examining her tights, as though deeply unconcerned. ‘I’d have him for sausage stuffing, little bits and all.’

‘Do I detect the odious whiff of double standards?’

‘Not a bit. A man doesn’t get filleted for what he’s done, but for getting caught. I’d remember that, if I were you, while you’re having your Chinese massage.’

Corsa’s relationship with women benefited from two principal advantages – three, if one remembered his ability as a press proprietor to keep the dogs at bay. The first was his sense of physical control – the green-black eyes, the hand movements, the careful tailoring, even the deliberate way he walked, not hurrying as some shorter men might. Others waited for him. His second advantage was a wife who had known even before they had married that she would have to share him, and not solely with the Granite. But besides the Granite, she comforted herself, there could be no other mistress of importance. And there never had been. Sex for Corsa was simply another aspect of power, to be exercised and indulged over as broad a landscape as possible, particularly with wives of important men, the sort of St James’s club men who could neither hide their disdain nor satisfy their brides. An empire of English cuckolds, as outdated as the ugly oil paintings that hung in their drawing rooms. The saving grace in Corsa as far as most women were concerned was that they knew exactly what they were going to get – a physical intensity which he would lavish on them in the most elegant of surroundings, for a while, so long as business did not intervene. ‘A hand on my chest and an eye on his watch,’ as one of his lady acquaintances had remarked, but not in complaint. The eyes hovered restlessly, trembling, like the tip of a hawk’s wing, but the smile at the corner of his mouth was constant and unwavering. So was the passion. Irresistible, for some. Then, with an insouciant wave of farewell, it would be over.

Diane Burston, however, was a different matter. Since he had met her at Downing Street his mind had been tossing on an ocean. Every wave lifted his spirits, allowing him a tantalizing glimpse of what might be the way ahead, a way to survive. Then he would be cast down, the vision dashed, and he would be surrounded by hideous, violent seas that threatened to overwhelm him and smash him on the rocks. The bankers had been more difficult than he’d expected, solicitous as ever but posing more questions and requesting more paper, which on this occasion it seemed they were intent on reading. They had begun to feel the pressure, too, and like all bankers were keen on passing that burden onwards. He’d found himself struggling, even at one stage leaning in argument on their long relationship and friendship. That’s when he knew he was in deep water, for friendship didn’t travel far down Lombard Street.

And he had found his thoughts straying all the more frequently to the oil executive. Not to her body, as delightfully preserved and presented as it was, but to who she was, and what she was. As the seas grew steadily rougher they threw him higher still and for fleeting moments he was finding a clearer sight of salvation, and such was Corsa’s natural self-confidence that only rarely did he allow himself to think that he might not reach it, however distant and difficult the goal might seem. Yet he knew it would not be possible without Diane Burston, and others like her.

He’d arranged supper at Le Caprice, and Mayfair at that time of night was choked. He was driving himself – the chauffeur already knew more than enough without needing to know where Corsa might be spending the night – and he’d been cruising for ten minutes. He’d found not a single free parking space around the streets and already two clamping teams were patrolling, falling like flies upon a feast. The NCP right next to the restaurant had space but parting with money was tantamount to admitting defeat. Parking in London was war, and Corsa refused simply to quit the battlefield. Maybe it was meanness, perhaps it was the growing tension or the meeting with the bankers that reminded him that every penny might yet count – he put it down to his Neapolitan instinct, which abhorred being told what he could or could not do, and drove round one last time.

He’d passed the ancient mini-Honda three times already. A bright yellow anti-nuclear sticker shone out from the back window, and there was a sign warning of babies on board. It was also so outrageously parked that it took up space which could have accommodated two large saloons. Selfish bitch. And it was getting late. Time to put up or push off. Fa fan culo. This time he did not pass by, but eased his car up against the rear bumper of the Honda until he felt the gentlest of rocking motions to indicate they were in contact. Several tons touching tin. Then he gave it a little more gas, scarcely more than a kiss of encouragement. He was surprised how easily the Honda shifted, almost four feet. It bounced along the kerb, scraping the wheel trim, but a woman driver would scarcely notice the difference. And space had been created, he was in. A minor victory. And an omen, he hoped.

The restaurant was crowded – tonight’s highlights were a celebrating playwright, the moment’s slickest fashion photographer, a leading libel lawyer whose hennaed hair was betrayed beneath the overhead lights. They all paused as Diane Burston walked in, men and women alike, wondering who she was meeting, where she bought her clothes, envying the maître d’ as she let her coat slip from her shoulders and into his hands. She bore that quality in a woman which goes beyond beauty and suggests control, a reversal of the primeval rule that men hunted and women waited helpless within the cave for the hunter’s return, the type of woman for whom a man’s first reaction is a buckling at the knees rather than any stirring of loins.

‘Good evening, Mr Corsa. Hope I haven’t kept you waiting.’ Which she had, deliberately. He didn’t mind, not with the eyes of every man in the restaurant upon him.

They busied themselves with the functions of ordering. She cast her eyes over the menu for no more than a few seconds but knew precisely what she wanted. He had planned for champagne but everything about her suggested this was a woman of substance rather than froth; he ordered a vintage Montrachet.

‘I was intrigued by your invitation, Mr Corsa …’

‘Freddy. Please. And I wanted first and foremost to apologize. I’ve read again some of the coverage the Herald has given you. I didn’t care for it. I’m sorry.’

‘A letter of regret would have been sufficient.’

‘No it wouldn’t. I mean what I say. The Herald was wrong.’

‘That’s kind of you to say so. Sadly, of course, the damage has already been done.’

The waiter had finished laying out fresh cutlery, fish for her, côte de boeuf for him. Corsa picked up the steak knife, placing his thumb to the blade in the half-light as though checking its capacity to do damage.

‘I’ve got rid of the City Editor.’

‘Goodness,’ she replied, ‘what you men will do in pursuit of an advertising contract.’

‘Oh, no. Don’t misunderstand. This has nothing to do with your cancelled advertising. I’m in pursuit of something much bigger. And to avoid any confusion, as much as I appreciate your coming here this evening in a manner which is more than capable of starting a Cabinet crisis, I am not talking about trying to get into your bed.’

‘Then I have failed,’ she mocked. ‘When I talk business with men who don’t want to get into my bed I find I’ve lost half my advantage. Men are such little boys at heart. They seem incapable of concentrating on both coitus and contracts at the same time.’

‘I didn’t say I don’t want to get into your bed. But that’s not the point of this evening’s discussion. And I’m a very grown-up boy.’

They paused as the waiter arrived with sparkling water. The fresh ice cracked and spat in the glass.

‘You told me when we met at Downing Street that your corporate image is everything.’

‘True.’

‘Then why don’t you start taking it seriously?’

She refused to rise to his bait. ‘I spend tens of millions of pounds on it, as you know. Some I used to spend with you.’

‘On advertising, yes, but it’s an art form that has had its day. You’ve got to grow far more sophisticated. At least as sophisticated as your enemies.’

‘Enemies?’

‘You go into battle every day with eco-warriors who are trying to kill you. One oil spill, one rusting drilling platform being towed around the North Sea in search of a burial place, a baby seal which dies on a beach from unknown causes – any event like that, so long as it happens in front of a camera, and all the millions you spend on your image as a warm and caring oil company become about as effective as confetti in a Force Nine gale.’

‘Much the same can be said when newspapers like yours scurrilously and inaccurately accuse me of greed for getting a pay increase.’ She intended to wound but with Corsa it had no more effect than a soup spoon lobbed at a charging rhino.

‘Precisely! But have you ever asked yourself why you get such a hard time in the media? You’ve got to remember that even if journalists aren’t bone idle they’re all up against tight deadlines. We need news in a hurry. So the pressure groups lay a feast before us – videos, apocalyptic quotes, regular updates, even free propaganda T-shirts to wear in the garden at weekends. If we want a picture, they lay on one of their helicopters to get us the best shot.’ The bottom half of his face had grown animated, yet the eyes remained hard as coal. ‘D’you know the last thing they do before they chain themselves to trees or cut holes in the fence around a nuclear power station? They check to make sure that the batteries on their mobile phones are fully charged.’

‘But those bloody people make it up as they go along. They lie.’

Her lips had tightened, he was getting to her. He raised a patronizing eyebrow. It was his turn to mock.

‘They lie!’ she repeated. ‘Doesn’t that matter to the press?’ Her nostrils flared in protest, then slowly subsided. ‘Forgive me. I’m not usually naive.’

He leaned forward tenaciously, both hands gripping the table. ‘You told me yourself that it’s a war out there. And how do you fight it? Maybe you call a meeting of some planning committee, prepare a holding statement, discuss what, if anything, you dare to say. By which time it’s already too late. As far as the media are concerned you give us nothing but yesterday’s sardines wrapped in slices of stale bread.’

She paused, running her finger around the rim of her wine glass, listening to the mournful note.

‘Forget about advertising,’ he insisted. ‘It’s hard news you need to worry about. Play the enemy at their own game. Get your retaliation in first. Screw ’em!’

The wine waiter had returned with the Burgundy. Grand Cru. Exceptional. From a chateau that nestled against the rising hills outside Puligny which the waiter knew and much loved. He handled the bottle with almost phallic respect, presenting it formally, running his fingers gently down its shaft, demanding both their attention and admiration. Then he produced a corkscrew, sheathed it around the long neck and twisted and turned and screwed until the arms of the corkscrew seemed to rise gently above its head in a gesture of feminine surrender. The cork came out with a sigh of silk sheets. It was a wonderful performance, a gesture so rich in overtones that Corsa shivered in appreciation, as he did with all good business. She’d noticed too.

She raised her glass. ‘I’ll drink to that.’ She stared directly at him across glasses filled with fine, honeyed liquid. ‘It sounds, Freddy, as though you want to lend me your front page.’

‘Oh, no,’ he smiled, ‘not lend. I’ve something much better in mind for you.’

Goodfellowe had fallen for Werringham School as soon as he had driven into the grounds on his first visit – and well before he had discovered the cost. By that time it had been too late, his heart was committed, and the expense was simply another part of life that his thought processes struggled desperately to cordon off and ignore. The school was set in thirty acres nestling in the cupped hand of the Somerset uplands as they pushed towards the River Exe. That first time, as he had driven along the school drive – when he still had a licence to drive – there had been azalea and maple and pleached limes. Buzzards rested in the huge cypress trees before gliding gracefully up on the thermals that gathered in the bowl of the hills. If it couldn’t be home for Sam, it was as close as she was likely to get in any institution. Warm and protecting. But it could never be home.

The day of the fashion show he arrived unannounced after a slow train journey from Waterloo. He had hoped to remain inconspicuous, the reminder about term fees still burning in his pocket, but no sooner had he reached the porch of the old sandstone manor house which formed the centre of Werringham than he was intercepted by a regional television crew. ‘Bright girl, your daughter,’ the female interviewer smiled as they stood him in front of the camera. ‘Badgered us into sending a crew. Made us feel that if we refused we’d be responsible for famine throughout the whole of central Africa. Didn’t tell us you were coming, though.’

And he had said a few words about the school and the girls and the example that the young could give us all. Then he had run straight into Miss Rennie.

‘An unexpected pleasure, Mr Goodfellowe,’ she acknowledged, looking him sternly in the eye. She had the sort of Presbyterian stare which seemed to go straight through to his bank balance. ‘I hope you’ll have a chance to linger after the fashion show. I would welcome the chance of a quiet conversation.’

‘I’m afraid I must be back in Westminster for seven. A vote.’

‘A pity. We need to talk. It’s not ideal but … perhaps we could sit together during the show. The opportunity for a few words, at least.’

There had been no question of a refusal and, much out of sorts, Goodfellowe had gone in search of Samantha. But it was not to be. Parents were not welcomed in changing rooms where twenty teenage girls were in a state of considerable excitement and undress. Instead he spent a few minutes strolling around corridors which smelt of lunch and wood polish, remembering his own school days. The memories stirred once more, making him grow angry, stubborn. Even after all these years he could still feel the arrows of teenage torment, buried in him up to their feathers. The humiliation of being forced to pack, to leave in the middle of term through no fault of his own, yet in disgrace. The taunts of his fellow schoolboys who didn’t understand, and his wretched inability to respond because he didn’t understand either. He didn’t understand why his father had let him down, had let them all down, and why the name of Goodfellowe had become something which excited only derision. That had been the reason he’d gone into public life, to restore the name of Goodfellowe. And that was also why he could never let Samantha down in the same way, no matter what the cost.

He squeezed in beside Miss Rennie onto one of the familiar coccyx-crushing chairs which breed in the storage rooms of every place of learning. She was sitting ramrod straight, as though on guard. A no-nonsense pose. He decided not to flannel.

‘Miss Rennie,’ he muttered, ‘thank you for your patience, but I think you’d like to know that I’m seeing my bank manager next week. I feel sure the problem with the fees will be resolved then.’

That is kind,’ she nodded thoughtfully, staring ahead. ‘Kind. It’s been worrying.’

‘There’s no need for you to worry, Headmistress.’

‘Oh, but I do, Mr Goodfellowe, I don’t wish to be impertinent, but – well, this isn’t the first time. I’ve often wondered why you don’t do what I understand many other politicians do and take on a consultancy, perhaps, some outside interest which would help you with the school fees. Relieve the pressure.’

He sighed. ‘Perhaps you’re right. I do have one consultancy as it happens, with the CPF.’

Miss Rennie raised an eyebrow.

‘The Caravan Park Owners’ Federation.’

The eyebrow, a tiny tangle of heather, rose still further.

‘But I’ve always thought,’ he continued, ‘that – how can I put it without sounding too pompous? – the job of an MP is in the House of Commons and his constituency. Not around boardrooms and lobby groups.’

‘But term after term, Mr Goodfellowe. And we all share in your pain, truly we do.’

He doubted that, but decided this was not the time to argue the point. ‘I’ll think about it. I promise. But I must remind you. Not a word to Samantha. I don’t want her to worry.’

‘Mr Goodfellowe, I shall breathe not a word but it would surprise me if she didn’t have some grasp of the situation.’ He could see the genuine concern in her grey eyes. ‘Samantha is a very talented and resourceful girl. We would be sorry to see her go …’

‘I trust there’s no question of that, Headmistress. As I said, next week …’

‘It’s not entirely a matter of money, Mr Goodfellowe, but what is best for Samantha. To be honest, in spite of the excellent work of which she is capable and her initiative in organizing the fashion show, she doesn’t seem happy here at Werringham. Surely you must have noticed?’

‘Well, I … hadn’t noticed, to be honest. She’s going through a phase, of course. But most teenagers do.’

‘She’s a lonely girl, Mr Goodfellowe, with few friends.’

‘Oh,’ he responded, deflated. ‘I suppose it doesn’t always help having a politician as a father. She must get ribbed about that. My fault.’

‘It’s more than that. She doesn’t want to fit in. I’ve never been sure she ever wanted to come to Werringham.’

‘It’s true that she was very happy at her old school. But after her mother … well, I’m in London all through the week. It had to be boarding school. There was no other choice.’

‘I’m not unsympathetic, you understand, but I must bear in mind what is best for Samantha. She has considerable ability, of that there’s no doubt, and her artistic skills are exemplary, but at times she seems to be easily distracted. Even stubborn. She flatly refuses to participate with the other girls at team sports. Goes off on her own during her town time – I suspect going to places I would regard as altogether undesirable. And with older boys.’

‘What are you suggesting about Sammy?’ Lurid pictures were beginning to float across the parental mind.

‘Nothing. I am merely expressing concerns. Samantha is unhappy. And, I fear, not altogether the best of examples to the other girls. I have them to consider, too.’

The conversation had been blown into poorly charted waters. Suddenly he found himself wishing for a return to the more familiar if equally hazardous ground of his personal finances but, before he could respond, a splash of Live Aid music had showered upon them and, through a fog of dry ice, the fashion show had begun. Down a catwalk built from the centre of the stage emerged a parade which combined exuberance, propaganda, Viyella and vivid colours, hats, sequins, satin, yards of youthful thigh and a measure of naive taste.

Then there was Sammy.

He could not stifle a sharp intake of breath. The clothes themselves, designed by Samantha and made up by other more skilled seamstresses, consisted of carefully flared trousers which began three inches below her navel and had laces down the thigh. Her shoes had huge heels which made his blistered feet weep in sympathy. Three inches above the navel began a crop-top which outlined a figure that had become undeniably soft and feminine. At that moment and for the first time he realized that his little girl, so innocent in school uniform and shapeless jeans and jumpers, was growing up all too fast. It made her unfamiliar; he was suddenly afraid he was losing her. A large waistcoat of patchwork velvet finished off the clothes. Above, around her neck, was a gap where her mother’s locket might have been.

So far, none of this was exceptional apart from the effervescence and simple sense which had gone into the effect. What caused further intakes of breath from all around – not just from himself but most noticeably from Miss Rennie – were the deeply personal accessories. The spikes of brilliant orange where before had been soft auburn hair. Purple lips. The bared left shoulder from which sprouted the tattoo of a rose in bloom. And another gap, between halter and hipsters, where a gilded chain encircled her hips and threaded up to an all too obvious gold ring that had been pierced straight through the flesh of her navel.

The cameras were beside her now, following her confident strides up and down the catwalk. She appeared heedless of the stir of unease from parents in the audience, perhaps even relishing it. Yet in the farther recesses of the hall something else stirred. Approval and applause began to break through like spring daffodils, cautiously at first, then more abundantly and with greater confidence until they had spread inexorably through the carefully planted rows of chairs and were swirling around the foot of the stage. The cameras turned on the audience, which began to respond, elders matching the enthusiasm of their offspring.

But not Goodfellowe. He remained immune to the infection sweeping through the hall. This was his little girl, barely out of braces and bobby socks. Or was it? She seemed strangely unfamiliar, unknown to him. ‘What on earth do you call that … that …’ – words failed – ‘grunge?’

‘You’re out of date, Mr Goodfellowe. That’s definitely post-grunge,’ Miss Rennie offered without a trace of humour, but joining in the applause as the cameras panned towards her. It was the only way. Apparent enthusiasm. The honour of the school was at stake.

Cameras appeared to be everywhere that week.

It was Friday, mid-afternoon, and Goodfellowe was driving – more correctly being driven – back to Marshwood. One of the few blessings of being stripped of his licence was that the Member for the neighbouring constituency, Lionel Lillicrap, was a colleague of long standing and had been more than willing to help with lifts. In fact, Lionel was the only blessing which arose from that sorry episode – apart from the fact that he could drink without damnation for at least another eight months.

Goodfellowe and Lillicrap had entered the House together, twelve years earlier, sharing in the early days both ambition and a Commons office, yet it had been Goodfellowe on whose brow the laurels of early promotion had fallen. Indeed, he had been the coming man. He was granted grudging respect by his civil servants and, more grudgingly still, by his colleagues, and it was agreed by consensus that Goodfellowe had far to go. Cabinet Ministers engaged in backstairs battle in order to secure his services as their Number Two, regarding him as a rock in the stormy legislative night. They reserved for Goodfellowe the highest parliamentary accolade, that he was ‘a safe pair of hands’. As he hacked his path through the Ministerial jungle his diary had struggled to fit in days in Davos and weekends in Washington. An invitation to sit around the brown-baize Cabinet table seemed an inevitable next step.

It had been the trip of a lifetime and as companion on that trip he had taken Lillicrap as his PPS. Rising Ministers are allowed Parliamentary Private Secretaries, ambitious men and women who are willing to engage in the most menial of tasks around the House on behalf of their masters, pouring drinks, running errands, taking in dirty parliamentary laundry, carrying their Minister’s papers in the hope that one day they will be able to carry such papers in their own right. One foot on the ladder, yet with the other still stuck in the cloying mud of the backbenches. If it had been innately irksome for Lillicrap to watch his contemporary speed ahead of him, at least he was grateful for the opportunity to follow, and he took reassurance from the fact that he was fully five years younger than Goodfellowe – he had time on his side.